i have always wanted a personality
like an unsettable clock
so i could know where
to put my hands
when dancing.
but maybe the self
is defined by who you disinvite
spitting out
what you almost swallowed.
or in those you don't
invite in those you breath
instead of swallowing.
for long had i swallowed anger
like swallowing air
instead of breathing it.
and it came back up as discovery
like a bag of rice burst
in your pack as you walked; the first,
foolish thought: how to stuff
it all back in. you blame
the plastic bag, the grains,
the clothes and books and
other surfaces now smuggling them,
yourself,
so that you don't have to move
from that first thought,
so that you don't have to acknowledge
a mess which is only a catastrophe
of timing.
but if grains will not
collect themselves a mess of self
must. or at least must trust
in collection
for things may happen
to no reason but reason happens
to all things or at least
rationalization does
and what is self
but the ticks
in a tale
of necessity.
don't worry: it could not
have been otherwise
because otherwise
it would not have become
you.
and so the metronome tocks
and we call growth what we cannot stop
and set ourselves in time
like concrete. but O my hands
always wave and flutter
to others'
to hold and know
the time. to catch tempo
in another's
breath
and swallow
is to know self as a lie
we must all learn
to be true.